Christian Allen

The Book Keeper, smells of ashes and cherry wood,
Of pipes and tinder, and of things ancient and grey.
His beard is a forest, of thick white hair,
Even it has seen things, that I haven’t.
...

God’s country is a place between,
The two great seas.
God’s country is a forest,
Of evergreens and pines.
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...

He sat with his fingers interlocked,
Staring at me from his office chair.
I will make you a deal,
He said with smoke seeping from his lips.
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Sleepily I wake, sleepily I wonder
With elation, am I filled when the sun
Breaks in from the outside, through my window
It drowns me.
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Wrecked and vexed,
I called upon your mercy

Neck in neck, tastes of flesh,
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Resting in fields, in the shoes you dirtied in high school
With the sweat caked on your brow, red clay mixed and dried
You smoke a cigarette where your fathers fell and you walk
These trees are the hosts of our stages and forums that we've acted in
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Sun, trees are cold, follow me son
Come to the harvest of your youth
Dance with me around the leave piles
The smoke rises from this Georgia hill
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When my music plays, the seconds will not tick
While the notes fall, the sun will hold its place
I will be wrapped in the eternal warmth of the innocent
As the drums crash down, so dropp my feet on this dirt path
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He lied about a cigarette
Told a stranger it was his last
Time would drip and he would regret
The grip on cursed pleasure he kept so fast
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The old man sits on his porch,
Thinking about the rain.
It used to rain like this in Georgia,
But wait, more gentle than this.
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My pen bleeds, my thoughts boil, my skin aches,
For tonight I am without you.
My mind ponders, shakes, and spins.
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Circumstances are the vices that dull my spirit,
He reasoned from the crest of the hill,
In the snowy landscaped tears of heaven,
While he gritted the teeth of fate,
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A gentle breeze knocks the grass
Off its partnered to the sand.
A stranger walks to the shore
From the land of forgotten memories.
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Can we keep this simple, kind and cute.
I’ll show you who I want with the utmost effort
That I won’t reveal my heart.
She, like me, would make me crazy.
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“I will sail for you, Darling, on an ocean to your heart”

November, chilly not cold
A note rests on the porch, bold
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Georgia is wet in summer,
Tears as rain and steam as guilt.
Georgia is scorched in summer,
Those who parish, feel the heat.
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My memories churn, and run and work.
Of the time I met you by the brook.
You, dressed for summer’s sake.
I, a man with a wife to take.
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